Grim Burden
by dragon77888
Summary: Let it never be said that being the son of Clockwork came without consequences. Why did he have to bare the burden, why was he forced to carry the power...why did he have to be the Lord of the Dead? Story is better. Rated T for blood and violence. DISCONTINUED
1. Wanderlust Manifestation

**Author's Beginning Notes**

** I'm back! This is the prequel (before story) of Danny's Brush With Death. I had been messaging back and forth with Turkeyhead987, and she has helped me decide on making the story of Reaper, and his story of becoming the Grim Reaper. To those of you who are just tuning in, and haven't read Danny's Brush With Death (DBWD), I humbly suggest you quickly go read it before continuing with this. My internet has been down for a LONG time, so I had plenty of time to consider how I was going to go about this, but it may take a little nudge to get my top form of quality to become evident. This is pretty much a test, so I might or might not finish it depending on the reviews. Enjoy.**

4.3 Billion Years Ago, Ghost Zone; Clockwork's Lair

Many millenia before the arival of the early day, more primative human race set themselves as the dominate seniant species of the planet Earth, it's interdimentional, spectral mirror image known as the Ghost Zone, was at that point already populated by ancient and powerful spectors - the overlookers of balance in all existence. Situated in the ectoplasmic dimention were merely eight such entities, along with a dozen more lesser ghosts called the Observents, all with a specific duty to forfill while the planet Earth continued to thrive and evolve, as well as the Ghost Zone proceeded to expand to accomidate the escalating ghost population. At this point in time, spectors were more accurately dubbed as a similar in appearence, but an entirely different species culture, and biologically wise, and not as merely shadows, or ectoplasmic manifestations of post-human consciousness, as was wrongly stated many times in the present date. Like all races, they could reproduce, adapt, learn, feel emotions, and evolve over time. The first ghost to ever live was Clockwork, the Master of Time. His age is immeasurable, but his power and wisdom was vast and mysterious. He knew everything that was to come, and that had already past, as well as all that was currently happening around his lair. To him, time and spaces were irrelevant, considered as nothing more than ideas or beliefs, easily transferring between the two as he pleased. Clockwork existed in all time lines.

Next came the Aspect of Life, known only as Primrose. Her beauty was uncontested, only outshined by her immense tendancy to kindness, peace and harmony in all things of existence. Her love towards all living things was undeniable, swiftly cultivating vast oceans of lush green vegetation upon Earth, along with depositing the first primative organisms on the evolving world. The two ghosts met on several occasions, exchanging friendly dialog, a welcome bond forming between the lone spooks. Clockwork and Primrose quickly found themselves drawn to one another. From the two, a single child was spawned, but at the costly price of the female spook's life during childbirth. Clockwork mourned the Aspect's death, but readily rose to the challenge of raising his biological son, isolated from the rest of the spectral world in his tower, in the far corner of the Ghost Zone. The child was named Reaper, for Clockwork's considerable lack of creativity, sticking mostly to logic, facts, and foresight as he was proficiant in doing. Another reason being for the newly born babe's freak accident involving one of Clockwork's scythes, resulting in the timelord being bedridden for an extended period of time as he recovered from the ordeal. From that day on, Clockwork took extra precaution to keep his more potentally dangerous, or delicate intruments and technology out of Reaper's immediate reach.

Clockwork kept his son in the safety of his tower, enforcing the child to remain oblivious to the world outside. For 5 years, this was never a problem, but come Reaper's 6th year of age he became increasingly restless from being pent up in the stuffy old lair, and Clockwork's continuous streak of sudden absenses to leave for the Observent Council gatherings, and sooner or later, his curiousity would draw him to the outside world, unable to resist the temptation of youthful wanderlust...

Reaper floated irritatedly around the confined space of the dull tower, bored and lonely. In all his six years of life, he had never been so lacking in something to do. He had thusfar entertained himself with investegating his father's wide array of curious gadgets, and devices, but after several incidents and much mayhem caused, Clockwork had hid away his vast collection of artifacts, leaving the boy with little to do to occupy his time. His father never seemed to get bored of his longevity. He always wondered where exactly his father went when he disappeared some days. Clockwork never mentioned where he had gone, drawing Reaper into a state of curiousity. Did he, perhaps, go somewhere far beyond the tower? The world outside the tower was unknown to Reaper, and Clockwork only occasionally, mysteriously and vaguely referenced it when he spoke to him about the creation of all existence. The way his father spoke of it, he made it sound like a cruel, unforgiving place of sadness and misfortune. But Reaper felt in his core that his father was lying about that. It was called Ghostly Intuition; a spector's inner ability to sense when people close to them are weaving lies, or not speaking the whole truth. Reaper felt that the 'Ghost Zone' as his father referred to it as being called, was a place of wonder and discovery, a new world to be explored by brave and curious youths. Alas, though his father suffocated him with paternal kindness, he was, however, strict and rather scary when Reaper pleaded to go beyond the old, dusty lair he called home.

Reaper looked out the only window situated at the upper-most section of the lair, laying on his belly upon the round stone sill, propping up his elbows to rest his chin in the palms of his hands. He glanced longingly out at the endlessly wide expances of swirling green energy, and hovering islands of barren, or lushly vegetated rock and dirt. He yearned to escape the tower, and lose himself exploring the depths of the strange, foreign world. But such was impossible. Reaper's father forbayed it rather firmly, insisting that he remain in the 'safety' of the timelord's lair. Reaper sighed in exasperation, ghost tail wisping to and fro. He hoped that someday Clockwork would realize he needed to halt his continuous pestering, worrying needlessly for his safety before Reaper went stir-crazy.

Reaper flipped onto his back, his black robes wrapping around him like a soft, velvity blanket of shadows, ocean blue eyes boring holes into the pristine stone tiles above him. He lounged on the window sill many times before during the days where he was more bored than usual. This was one of those insufferablely dull days. He could do nothing to distract himself but think, and even then there wasn't much to think about. Even in his six years of life, there was nothing note-worthy to continuously consider for hours on end. Reaper attempted to let his mind wander through his past memories, but no matter how much he tried to ignore it, his wanderlust-suffering consciousness was drawn back to the prospect of exploring the world outside the tower, this Ghost Zone of which Clockwork spoke. The young spook just couldn't seem to banish the images of the strange world from his mind. It drew him in like a fly to tantalizing fresh honey, almost equally diffcult to resist the temptaitions.

**No**, his rational side insisted, **There has to be a reason behind why father refuses to allow me out there. It could be dangerous.**

**He just doesn't want you to see what's out there**, spoke his curious side, **Don't you want to find out what's out there?**

**Yes, but I'll get in trouble! **the first voice whined, **Father will get really mad if he finds out!**

**That's **IF **he finds out**, the second voice said smoothly, **Just one minute outside won't hurt anyone. He'll never know.**

The internal bickering between his two sides waged for several minutes, before they came at a comprimise. 60 seconds outside, then straight back home, and no if, ands, or buts about it. No sidetracks, or distractions. Reaper sprung from his window perch, doing swift loops in the air, then bolting directly towards the from entrance of the tower, cloak billowing behind him. What happened next seemed to go by so immencely fast, it was as if an hour's happenings were condensed into a single moment. Creaking, the large, masterly crafted solid wood door inwardly swung open, a hooded figure taking up the majority of the space of the clear doorway. Seeing the child rocketing towards him, the spook's face twisted into a smile of shock, crimson eyes widening with surprise. Reaper couldn't halt his momentum, and, flailing commedically in midair, slammed into the center of the figure's chest, sending the two sprawling onto the floor, a cloud of dust stirring with the movement, envelouping the spooks.

Reaper coughed the dirt from his lungs, blinking his watering eyes, studying the figure whom he crushed. Reaper stiffled a sheepish chuckle upon realizing who it was. The figure wore purple robes, adorned with multiple wrist and pocket watches all along his person, a glass case containing a pendulum clock imbented in his chest. His skin was a calming sky blue, eyes pure red with a warm kindness in their crimson depths. On the ground several feet away, a fair sized staff rested in the dust, a large clock mounted at it's top. Clockwork wiped the grime off his face, eyes landing on the young boy resting on his chest. A slight smile wormed it's way onto his usually stoic stone-like face. The timelord lifted the smaller spook off his chest and into the air as he floated upright, before he place the youth back onto the ground, brushing the dirt from his cloak.

"That was certainly not the kind of greeting I was expecting." Clockwork mused, gazing down at Reaper as a slight blush flickered across the youth's face.

"Sorry, father." Reaper said with a childishly innocent grin spreading across his lips, "I'm just glad to see you home. It's so lonely here when you're gone." A half-lie, but it possessed some very really truth. He was truely delighted to see Clockwork was back from...where-ever it was that he went as of late. Things never got dull when his father was around, despite Reaper's yearning to explore the outside world. Clockwork would tell grand tales of what he had foreseen, or encountered during his own youth. Considering the timelord saw extravagent things from all timelines and spans, the stories were always exciting and fresh, never growing old or dull to the young spook. He told tales of the race called 'humans', that would play a key role in the coming future of the Ghost world, of brave knights astride noble steeds embarking on adventurous quests, slaying dragons and rescuing fair maidens from danger, of interesting and advanced technologies, space travel, and the history of all things. Due to these stories, and Clockwork's teachings, Reaper swiftly expanded his vocabulary to extraordinary levels considering his young age, his intellect surpassing that of a person who lived twenty knowledgeable years. However, because of his youth, his intellect was often left unused, sticking to childish tendacies and behaviors unless conflicted with a particularlly challenging problem, which he would readily solve exceedingly quickly.

"It's alright," Clockwork smiled, ruffling the child's soft black hair, "No lasting damage done." The timelord picked up his staff, using his purple robes to clear the dust from it's shaft, and mounted clock.

"Can you tell me a story?" Reaper pleaded, innocent blue eyes filled with hope.

Clockwork paused, readjusting the dial on the clock-staff. But his hesitation immediantly crumbled when he met the young boy's gaze. His soft smile widened on his pale blue lips.

"You have your mother's eyes," he whispered almost absentmindedly, making a hand gesture, conjuring two wooden chairs in the center of the room, in a slight clearing from the multitude of gears that littered the ground. The two spooks sat in the chairs, Clockwork leaning his staff against the wall. His form shifted into that of an elder, a ridiculously long white beard trailing from his chin, across his lap, and onto the floor, deep wrinkles forming along his face giving him a wisened, scholarly appearence. Reaper fiddled in his seat, ghost tail wagging with curiousity, eargerly awaiting one of his father's fantasic tales of the many fasinating wonders he had beheld.

"How about I tell you...about your mother, Primrose?" Clockwork asked, observing his son for his reaction.

Clockwork almost never spoke of Reaper's mother, so painful were the memories of her unfortunate death during childbirth and the lonesome years afterwards. He had only recently laid his depression, and grief to rest, taking to caring for his biological son like Primrose would've wanted him to. Reaper was oblivious to the reason why he had never seen his birth-mother, he had yet to give it much thought or careful consideration. Clockwork had made sure he remained innocent for as long as he could, setting aside the grim tale for the day when Reaper was old enough to understand the concept of death, and was capable to handle the bitter truth. He was only a child, afterall. Needless to say, a surprised expression exploded onto his pale, greenish gray face. The boy nodded slowly, curiousity causing him to lean forward, as if it would allow him to hear better.

"Primrose and I were the first ghosts to come into existence, and as such we were very much alone in the vast world." Clockwork began, reframing from using words from his advanced vocabulary, and otherwise confuse the boy. But it was rather difficult to resist. "The two of us rarely met, and only briefly, while going about our usual tasks cultivating life upon our world's mirror interdimentional image, called Earth. Primrose was the most beautiful being I had ever laid eyes on, and still have yet to find a rival to her immeasurable amount kindness to this day. She was immencely friendly, and as such we did exchange the occasional conversation. Primrose quickly took a liking to me, and I her.

"We spent more time together, talked more frequently, saw eachother more often. We loved eachother very much." Clockwork's eyes grew sad, but masked it well from the youth. Reaper silently urged him to continue, and he did. "And before we knew it, a child was on the way. We were both happy, enthusiastic that we were to be parents." Clockwork hesitated to continue the tale.

Reaper took advantage of Clockwork's pause to ask the question that had been nagging at his conscious for quite some time. "Why haven't I seen mother before?"

Clockwork did well to hide his surprise of his son's blunt question. He quickly mustered up the will to answer in a half-truth.

"After you were born, Reaper..." Clockwork replied carefully, "...Your mother had to...leave for a time."

Reaper's face creased in innocent confusion. "Why did she leave? Did she not love you, or me?"

"No, no, it wasn't because of that, Reaper." Clockwork assured, lifting the youth from his chair, placing the boy onto his lap. The young spook was surprised, but didn't complain about the movement. "Your mother loved you and I very much, more than anything. She left because she had little choice, but she still cares for us immencely. She is in a better place right now, but someday you shall see her again, I promise."

"Is mother happy there?" Reaper whispered quietly, unable to see his father's face from the angle in which he had been seated. He felt his father's body tense, but he relaxed a moment later.

"Yes," he answered wistfully, "I'm sure she is happy where-ever she is right now, knowing that her little boy is growing up to be everything she had stood for."

Reaper didn't understand the hidden meaning in his father's words, the truth skimming right over his head. Clockwork was gradually easing Reaper into the true fate of his mother, starting out slow with a easy to believe half-truth for a young child. There was no gental way to tell a child that his mother was dead. He would save the grim tale for when the boy was older.

"Now that, that is done," Clockwork said suddenly, "What else do you want to hear about?"

Childish innocents caused Reaper to immediantly disguard his confusion in favor of thinking about what he wanted to know. The choice was obvious.

"Can you tell me about the outside world?" Reaper asked, and before his father could object he added, "And not that it's a cruel place of horror and danger. I know you were lying last time. Tell me the truth. Please, father?"

Clockwork sighed in exasperation, finding it impossible to deny the boy anything at that moment, adjusting his posture to be more comfortable. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, thinking of ways to explain the vast reaches of swirling ectoplasmic green energy, and drifting islands of either lush jungles or barren rocks. Reaper fidgeted eagerly in his father's lap.

"The world outside had been termed the Ghost Zone, and is the homeland of all ghosts." Clockwork started hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck with a black gloved hand, "It is expancive and mysterious, seeming to expand gradually to accomidate the growing spector population. There are interdimentional portals scattered throughout it's regions, taking the forms of floating doors, or a random tear in the environment. Some of these lead to either a ghost's lair, or the Ghost Zone's mirror image, the planet called Earth, while others travel through time and space. The two worlds are linked by these gateways, and tie their fates together. If the Earth were to be destroyed, the Ghost Zone would suffer the same fate, and vise versa. Not even I understand this phenomenon to a respectable degree, despite my infiniate knowledge.

"However, the Ghost Zone is riddled with danger regardless of what you may assume. Not all ghosts are friendly towards eachother, and would take much delight in slaying young children who are too curious for their own good. Then there is the factor of the dimention portals that you seem to be interested in. If you fall into one, who knows where it might lead? You could end up in the middle of space with no way to get back, or be accidently teleported forward in time to be hunted down by trigger-happy human Ghost hunters like a helpless frightened animal."

Reaper gulped nervously. Neither possibilites sounded pleasent to him.

"But enough of such talk." Clockwork stated, lifting Reaper up from his lap, placing him onto the ground as the timelord stood from his seat. The wooden chairs disappeared in a puff of blue smoke after a wave of Clockwork's hand. "It is late. You should go to sleep now." Reaper attempted to argue that he wasn't tired, but it was difficult when his eye-lids were closing, his pointed ears drooping, and how he continuously yawned whenever he opened his mouth to protest. Clockwork chuckled to himself, observing the small boy as he gave up trying to talk, instead flying lazily to his perch upon the windowsill. Once there, the young spook curled up like a cat, laying on his belly, arms supporting his lulling head, ghost tail wrapping around him, black robes acting as a velvity blanket. Almost instantly, Reaper was fast asleep, dreams haunted by ghostly visions of the outside world beyond the tower walls, body occasionally jerking spasmotically before going limp in contentfull rest.

Clockwork smiled, but his eyes were sad. The boy wanted to explore outside, that much was plainfully obvious to even the most clueless of people. It was somewhat understandable. For six years the boy had been couped up in the confined space of the tower, restricted from going beyond it's walls to explore the vast foreign world he knew so little about. It was only natural for him to become stir-crazy. But Clockwork didn't want to risk losing him to the multitude of dangers that stalked the Ghost Zone. The timelord didn't want him to suffer the same fate as Primrose. But he had to wonder; Would she have wanted it this way? Would she have desired to see her flesh and ectoplasm pent up in a dusty old tower, with vivide dreams of venturing through the Ghost Zone that Clockwork so strictly denied? Probably not. Maybe this was simply a phase that the boy was going through, and would soon come to his senses, and see the rational part of Clockwork's arguement.

He could only hope so.

**Authors Notes**

** First installment of the Grim Reaper's past, done. As you can see, I put Clockwork together with the Aspect of Life, which my sister helped me name Primrose (Pronounced; Purr-rim-rose). Together they had Reaper, but not before Primrose died in childbirth. Yes, I made it so that ghosts can die. They're just a smidge harder to kill than humans, especially the first ancient ghosts to come into existence. There are 8 ancient ghosts, which will be probably be introduced in the second or third chapter. In order of power-level, they are Clockwork (duh), Reaper (also duh), Pariah Dark, Pandora, Undergrowth, Nocturn, Vortex, and Frostbite. Then there are the Observents who popped up around the same time as Clockwork, but are so ridiculously weak that they hardly qualifiy to count amoung the 'the eldest and most powerful ghosts of all time.' They usually get someone else to do their dirty work, lazy son-of-a-guns. So anyway, hoped you enjoyed. Reaper will be causing some mischief next chapter, so prepare for mayhem!**


	2. Froze Encounters

**Author's Beginning Notes**

** Next installment for the Grim Reaper's past. In this chapter, Reaper cuts off more than he can chew, and causes Clockwork much grief. But I won't give anything away to spoil the story. A couple of characters are going to be introduced, ONE is an OC. They are purely there as moving-along-with-the-story-line character. Ugh, writting this was a pain, mostly for my leg. Reason being, that during a thunderstorm, I fell off my bed, and I somehow got a embrodary needle stuck in my leg. I don't know HOW that happened exactly, or why a needle was even in my room to begin with. Hurt like heck. Anyway, disregarding my meaningless pain rant, enjoy the chapter.**

Ghost Zone; Clockwork's Tower - Three days later.

Reaper couldn't sleep. No matter what position he shifted to on the windowsill, no matter how long he closed his eyes, his consciousness kept wandering to the haunting images of the outside world, stirring him from any contentfull rest he somehow managed to plung into. Insomia plagued him like a hissing demon perched at the forefront of his mind, wanderlust beating tatoos on the inside of his skull. After several unsuccessful attempts to fall alseep, he gave up, opening his pure blue eyes to glare at the pristen stone above him as if it were its fault he couldn't sleep. Despite the fact it was suppose to be night, there was an eerie ectoplasmic green glow coming from beyond the window, casting sinister shadows all about the dully lit tower lair he called home. Regardless what time it was, the swirling green glowing void of the Ghost Zone never dimmed, its radioactive luminosity cutting through any darkness in its immediant vicinity. Reaper cast a longing glance outside the window. He considered wistfully what it was like out in the Ghost Zone, yearning to explore its mysterious depths instead of being couped up in the confined space of a dusty, ancient tower for all eternity. The internal bickering from before returned with a vengence, swiftly taking up his consciousness, casting aside all other thoughts. Surely a minute outside wouldn't hurt anyone. If he saw any danger, he could easily return to the tower before he came to harm. Clockwork would never know.

Reaper's pointed ears twitched, his accute hearing informing him that his father was fast aleep in his chambers, at the upper-most section of the tower.

I could be out and back before he wakes up, Reaper thought, What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

That thought in mind, Reaper flew silently towards the front door of the lair, ghost tail wisping eagerly as he went, cloak billowing behind him like a trailing shadow. The young spook slowed considerably as he slipped through the maze of dusty gears, and large pendulum clocks, swallowing nervously at the forboading shadows that pooled around the tower, forcing himself to press onward to the entrance with steel hard determination. When he was younger, those shadows use to terrifiy him. His father would always have to gingerly lull him to sleep during his frequent panic attacks, promising to protect him from any danger that might be lurking about a night. On rare occasions, Reaper would get night terrors, and would sneak into Clockwork's room and wiggle into the bed with him in order to get back to sleep. Reaper was positive that his father knew this, but never mentioned it, perfering to allow his son to tell him what terrified his mind when he was ready to. These night terrors were strangely always the same dream, sometimes happening for three consecutive days before they finally abated his consciousness. The dream was in a foreign place of swirling ectoplasm and barren rock, two figures drapped in shadows floating there. One of the strangers lay on the ground, while the other was looming over it. Reaper could never identifiy their faces, but they were hauntingly familar, almost eerily so. Then there was the blood. Green ectoplasm was splattered everywhere, coating everything in a sticky sheet of slick luminous liquid. There would be the tortured wail of a baby splitting the air in a shrill cry, so filled with overwealming pain, and terror, it would almost be enough to cause the young spook's core to cease pulsing. After that, Reaper would wake screaming until his throat was raw, face slick with cold sweat and ghoulishly pale.

Reaper shook his head, banishing such dark thoughts from his mind. He hovered in front of the large, masterly carved solid wood door. As he extended a trembling hand to twist the doorknob, the door seemed to grow in size until he was the size of a terrified mouse by comparison. Of course, this was all but an illusion created by his persistingly rational subconscious in an attempt to cause him to abandon all thoughts of going beyond the safety of the tower. But his wanderlust and curiousity overwelmed any shred of doubt his mind fruitlessly concieved. Reaper fumbled with the doorknob for several moments before he actually managed to turn it.

The under-used door creaked as it swung open, causing Reaper to start, and cast a nervous glance in the general direction of Clockwork's chambers. His ears assured him that his father remained asleep. The boy let out a heavy sigh of relief, floating beyond the open doorway. Reaper immediantly was overwelmed by the sights, eyes wide in wonder. Vast expances of swirling green ectoplasm, levitating islands of lush jungles or barren rock, and a multitude of independantly designed doors lay before him, beckoning him to explore what foreign fasinations they had to offer. Childish curiousity caused Reaper to forget all about the time limit he set upon himself, launching off the island where Clockwork's tower was perched upon, and into the green void of the Ghost Zone.

The next hour passed swiftly in the thrill of discovery, and Reaper had subconciously wandered ridiculously far from his home. He flew happily through the ectoplasmic energy rich air at impressive speeds, treasuring each moment of his limitless emotional and physical freedom. But as he raced through the brush of a lush tropical jungle island, he was so emurse within his own explosive happiness that he was unaware of his surroundings until he collided with a very hard, fleshy wall of neon green. Reaper grunted with surprise as he fell backwards onto the rough soil with a meaty thump. The young spook rubbed his face, and looked upwards. His blue eyes widened with fear. Over him loomed a fierce looking ghostly beast, and it appeared quite hungry. Luminous saliva dripped from its arm-length pristen white fangs as its pure yellow gaze landed on the shivering child. The beast gave a mighty bellow, crab-like pincers crackling together in eerie laughter. Reaper sqeaked pathetically, backpeddling swiftly away from the creature, ghost tail morphing into two, white-booted legs. The monster lunged at the fleeing spook, and the small boy only just managed to dodge as its pincers pulverized the space he had occupied only a fraction of a second previous.

Reaper scrambled to his newly formed feet, avoiding another attack by the ghostly monster, and bolted in the other direction, boots digging ruts into the ground and trampling small sprouts of vegetation. There was a roar behind him as the monster trudged after him in pursuit, spear-like insect legs piercing deep into the earth with each thundering step. Reaper ran for his after-life, core pulsing faster, panic-induced energy coursing through his small frame, and a considerable head start allowing him to gain a slight lead from the monster. He pushed aside branches, and tripped over roots that seemed to go out of their way to get into his, trying frantically to escape the beast's focus by zig-zagging between huge, thickly clumped trees and vegetation, where it hopefully could not follow. However, the monster had an unfair advantage of possessing enough bulk to simply crush all in its path, plowing through the brush like an organic oversized lawn mower. With its longer legs, and surprising speed, it didn't take long for it to close the distance between it and Reaper. It lunged, clasping the fleeing spook in its pincer, skidding to a halt. Reaper squirmed in its iron hard grip, the groves of its appendage digging small gashes in his pale skin through the thin cloth of his robes, drawing glowing blue ectoplasm. The monster bellowed in triumpth, gashing white teeth, toxic breath reaking of death and decay. As it moved Reaper closer to its fanged maw to devour him, something in the deep primitive recesses of the young spook's consciousness clicked. Instinct taking over, Reaper opened his mouth, exposing premature canine teeth, and let forth a shrill, piercing shriek. His panic, fear, and pain ignited a foreign power in his brain. A warm electric tingle filled his mouth as ectoplasmic energy builded up in his throat, small sparks of dark energy worming over his neon green forked tongue.

Beneath its hard, jaggad edged exo-skeleton, the monster's bulging muscles seemed to tense, as if sensing the dangerous power gathering in its intended prey. It chittered uneasily, beady yellow eyes flickering ever so briefly with doubt. That's when Reaper fired. The muscles in his throat worked intinctively, and pushed the power outward. Reaper's mouth emitted a piercing wail, a dark energy blast launching from his throat in a spiraling orb, nailing the ghostly beats straight in its ugly green face, seeming to explode on contact with the creature, tearing appart its metre thick shell to pierce right into the monster's vaunerable leathery skin underneath. No only did it detonate yet again deep within the shell, but shards of residual energy sliced through the beast's hide like a hot knife through butter, flaying its flesh until it resembled something akin to raw hamburger. The monster shrieked in agony, recoiling from the impact, the entireity of its face a mangled mess of raw or singed ghost flesh and luminous ectoplasm. It thrashed spasmotically in pain, shreded exo-skeleton still hanging bitterly to its body by a single shred of tough flesh, releasing Reaper from its pincer in favor of flailing about, knocking over a multitude of trees in the process. Reaper fell to the ground as limp as a ragdoll, drained of energy. The boy dared to move slightly, and hissed sharply as his torn robes rubbed painfully against his wounds, tearing them off swiftly with a stiff hand. He flung the raggad pile of bloodied cloth away from him, exposing his multitude of minor wounds to the humid fresh air, strangely calm despite the monster stamping about not 10 feet away.

As the monster thrashed, the single tendon its cracked face armor hung by snapped in two, sending the bloodied shell crashing to the ground, its face streamed with blood, spraying the ectoplasm all about in a crimson rain. Several red droplets landed on the majority of Reaper's wounds, and stained his under clothes. It wouldn't have been too bad if this occurance wasn't accompined by a swift burning pain. Reaper howled, the beast's red ectoplasm mingling with his own blue blood. The two colours seemed to absorb one another, twisting about in a wiggling jello dance, and seeped into his pale gray-green skin. Reaper's eyes widened as his formally sky blue ectoplasm darkened in shades, until it had turned obsidian black, glowing eerily as it retreated back into his flesh. Before his eyes, the gashes covering his torso his pneumatically with steam, knitting fully back together at an accerated pace. Before he knew it, all his injuires were fully healed leaving nothing behind but faint scars, and his energy returned, humming electrically in his formally battered limbs.

Not hesitating to question what had just happened, Reaper lept to his feet, and flew into the air as the mangled ghostly beast fell limply to the ground with a thundering impact, crushing the space Reaper had lay not a moment previous. Legs morphing back into a ghost tail, Reaper fled the island, flying far away from it and the beast that had almost killed him. The young spook realized bitterly that his father had been right about the danger that lurked through the Ghost Zone, thinking himself foolish that he did not heed Clockwork's warning. He was somewhat surprised with himself, having had the power to utterly mutilate the monster's body with a single desperation attack. Reaper had no clue where that ability had come from. Scanning his mind, he could not find any trace of the energy that had eminated from the depths of his consciousness when he had formed the attack. He set aside further investigation for a later date, focusing on the task at hand.

I need to get home, Reaper thought urgently, Father must've have noticed I'm gone by now. He's probably tearing the Ghost Zone appart looking for me.

But as he looked about the strange world, he paled as he concluded that he was lost. He glanced frantically about, but the tower was nowhere to be seen. He had been so caught up in the thrill of exploration that he didn't notice he had wandered so far from home, and not even bother to observe landmarks that could've led him in the right direction back to the tower. Now he was lost in a world where everything was out to kill him, with no clue of how to get back to Clockwork's tower. He was utterly alone...Reaper's phobia flared up, envelouping his mind in primal terror. He hated being alone in the darkness. It was the one thing that terrified him the most. In the safety of the tower, this fear wasn't so bad. Only when he was younger did the phobia acutally strike him down while Clockwork was away. He would take refuge on the windowsill, the calm ectoplasmic light of the Ghost Zone keeping the darkness at bay until his father returned. Clockwork would help calm him down with his extravegant tales, helping to banish the darkness that so torturously haunted his son like a sinister cloud, and comfort him until he fell into peaceful sleep. As he got older, the panic attacks got let frequent, until they were a rare occurance all together. But here, in the middle of nowhere in a foreign place of danger, all alone, caused his fear to take over all rationality. Shadows seemed to tug around him, darkness twisting into sinister faces. Haunting whispers assulted his hearing, cruely telling him everything he didn't want to hear, the smell of death and rotting stinging his sensitive nose. Reaper curled up into a ball, covering his pointed ears with trembling hands, trying to block out the chilling voices. The six year old was afraid and alone. His shoulders hitched with tearless sobs, coiling his ghost tail around his body. He wished he hadn't discarded his robes, which acted as both a means of warmth, and of comfort, a slight cold seeping into his bones. Underneath his cloak, he wore only a dark cloth tunic, and a pair of single-legged shorts that covered some of his ghost tail. These were hardly suitable articles of clothing in the suddenly freezing environment.

After what seemed like an eternity of dry sobbing, Reaper's mind shut itself down, blocking out all emotion or troublesome thoughts. He floated, still curled up, unaware of his surroundings, lacking the energy to even process the images his eyes were seeing. He simply gave up the internal struggle, surrendering himself to the wicked shadows and haunting whispers. Reaper didn't even react when he slammed into an ice cold surface, so emursed within his dread and depression. He collapsed bonelessly onto the frozen earth, shivering intensely. Snow whipped around his head, making his black hair wisp about with the howling wind. Blinding white overwelmed his eyes, making him squint slightly as it stung his vision. Endless expances of snow drifts, and icy overhangs spread out before him in pure taintless waves of white. The cold cut him to the very center of his being, and he could swear he felt his core trembling painfully against his ribcage. He pulled his limbs in tighter to his body, trying to contain some of his slight body heat from escaping. Though ghosts were usually indifferent to cold temperatures humans considered unbareable - a spector's average interal body heat rarely exceeding 15 degrees fahrenheit - they could freeze solid in extreme cold just like any other creature in existence.

The temperature of Reaper's landing site was just enough to be deadly to a ghost that lacked protection from the elements, given enough time. Unfortunately, the son of Clockwork fell into that dead-man catagory at that moment. Reaper wormed over to a nearby overhang, curling up against the side of it to shield himself from the wailing wind. The different in temperature was slight, but was welcome to the rapidly paling spook. His body was numb, needle sharp pin pricks of pain tingling along his flesh when he moved. He dulled mind reasoned that sleep would help warm him, but the section of his brain that persisted to think rationally screamed at him to keep his eyes open. Instinct backed up that thought, knowing deep down that if he gave in to sleep then, he would be a gonner. That was how most people died in extreme cold. The chill made them drowsy, and when they finally fell asleep...they never awoke. Dying from the cold could usually take hours, depending how well the victim conserved their body heat and exactly how cold it was, but if you fell asleep, it was like signing your own death warrent. It was a peaceful way to go, all things considered, seeing how the person didn't suffer in the end. It was the simple fact that it took so long to kill you was what made it so agonizingly torturous and dreadful.

Reaper steeled himself to keep his eyes open, feeling much like a prisoner that refused to break under unbareable torture long after he had forgotten the reason why. His father would never be able to find him in time, the cold sapping the strength he needed to fly, and eventually take his life in the end. So why fight the inevitable fruitlessly in pointless hopes of escape? Reaper was on a frozen wasteland in the middle of nowhere, slowly freezing to death all alone. There was no way anyone could find him. The boy brought his limbs even closer together, a shred of determination forcing him to survive as long as he could in hopes of eventual rescue. The chill bit him to the bone, snow building up on his prone body. His core pulsed slower in his chest, and he sensed its glow fading gradually as the apparent hours crawled agonizingly by. Reaper weakly shook the snow off his body, but it did little to warm his fridged form. His muscles went slack, refusing to obey him anymore, numbness spreading swiftly like a plague throughout his body. His pointed ears and eyelids drooped, shadows consuming the corners of his vision, threatening to drown him in death beckoning unconsciousness, letting him forever rest in pure darkness and make the lifeless frozen land be his grave.

Maybe I'll be able to see my mother at last, Reaper thought wistfully in his half-dead delusions. Then he wondered where that thought had sprung from, but didn't give it much consideration, half stupid from the cold numbness infecting his mind. In his dimming vision, he could vaguely make out a large figure louping over to him. It was a large, sleek muscled feline creature, snow white with glowing blue stripes flowing across its flank. Four light purple slitted eyes locked onto him, and it bared its enormus fangs. It slowed its run, haunches rising as it crouched, stalking slowly over to Reaper's prone body, ears pressed flat against its massive head. The young spook dully noted that this was the second time that day some ghost beast wanted to eat him, only this time he lacked any and all strength to fend it off. The cat was the size of a human car, but moved with such deadly grace, it was almost hypnotizingly captivating. It crept towards him, paws making not a sound as they manouvered through the icy snow, nostrils flaring and eyes wary. It was intellegent, careful in case its intended prey had some fight left in it despite its disheavled appearence. Its sleek muscles rippled underneath its pristen fur as it loomed over Reaper, tail flickering from side to side. Reaper merely gave a weak blink, before closing his eyes, lacking the strength to keep them open, finally giving up consiousness in favor of losing himself in soft, warm darkness.

The ghost cat observed its prey intently, noticing its weakness easily. It hovered over the pathetic creature, using a massive paw to flip it onto its back. On its other paw, it unsheathed its razor sharp, black curved claws, moving them into position over the prey's exposed torso. A quick, underpawed claw strike under the ribcage to pierce its core. A swift death it usually reserved for the helpless. It prevented probable death struggling, and didn't allow the meat time to toughen, leaving it tender and juicy. Though most ghosts required no sustainence to survive, their cells saturated and drawing energy from the ambient ectoplasm the Ghost Zone naturally cultivated, some parts of the spectral world possessed ghosts that couldn't draw in energy from the air, and were forced to hunt down other ghosts to consume them and absorb their ectoplasm in order to continue existing. The spectral cat fell neatly into that catagory, along with the now mutalated crab-monster Reaper had previously encountered.

The cat poised to strike, muscles tensing. But as it was about to end the creature's life, a ice blade sliced a gash across its haunches, drawing pale blue ectoplasm. It bellowed in outrage, leaping back to avoid yet another attack by the stranger. It drew its lips back in a snarl, pacing restlessly back and forth, keeping its four eyes trained warily on the one who interupted its meal. The figure was rather tall, around a head larger than the snow ghost cat, with a sturdy build and broad shoulders. Course white fur covered it in a pristen blanket, one of its massive arms nothing but bone suspended in a thick layer of see-through blue ice. Its face was dog-like, with a small pair of ice horns growing from its shaggy head. It, or more acurately, _he_ wore primative garmets and clutched a sword made of crystal clear ice in his clawed hands. He stood protectively over the prone body of the cat's intended victim, growling deeply between his bared fangs.

The cat saw its own pale blue ectoplasm dripping from the tip of the ice sword, shifting uneasily on its wounded haunches. A flicker a doubt sparked in its eyes, carefully considering the possible outcome should it engage the newcomer. Surely such a puny meal was not worth further possible injury from fighting for it. The cat could easily find something more filling elsewhere that would be easier to bring down. That decided, it snarled once more, before easing out of its crouch, and louping away through the ocean of snow drifts, swiftly disappearing into the distance. The strange yeti like ghost gradually relaxed, desolving his ectoplasmic ice sword. He swiftly knelt down, wiping away the snow covering the deathly still child. The boy was ghoulishly pale, unnaturally so, his lips ashen, eyes closed, skin immensely chilled. The snow ghost picked up the boy gingerly, almost afriad he would crush the frail child in his massive hands. He clutched the child close to his furry chest, almost entirely envelouping Reaper in his considerable bulk, shielding him from the unforgiving chill with his own body heat. The yeti stood, making his way through the snowy tundra. After several minutes of walking, he came across his village. It was a sizable collection of iglues, and a cluster of cave systems dug into a frosty rock mountain. A blazer lay in the center, which crackled with orange flames that illumianted the surrounding area. Several creatures of similar appearences to his own moved about the small village, going about their regular bussiness.

The yeti creature approched his village, and upon the outskirts was met by a spear wielding ghost of similar build, but lacking a considerable amount of height.

"S-sir!" the ghost stammered, "There you are. We were beginning to wonder when you would return." The spook noticed the thin figure the larger yeti clutched firmly to his muscled chest. "Sir, might I ask what you are holding?"

"A young child in need," the ghost replied with a grunt, moving past the guard and into the heart of the village, spiked tail dragging a rut into the soft white snow. Many a yeti creature paused to observe the elder ghost's passing, some offering assistance, which the larger spook politely declined, moving steadily towards the mouth of the largest cave at the far end of the village. In the depths of the cavern was a spacious room, lined with a multitude of advanced medical technologies, and tools. A yeti holding a clipboard and possessing an ice-covered skeletal leg jumped slightly with surprised upon seeing the enormus form hukling into the room, holding a deathly pale ghost child in his furry arms. Not needing an explaination, the doctor quickly took the boy from his leader's grip, laying him on a pristen examination table. The yeti efficantly and unblushingly stripped the youth of his wet clothing, leaving only his undergarmets, tossing the soggy clothes in a corner for later drying. He gathered a pile of warm blankets from a table in the corner, piling them gentally on the shivering form of the boy. The doctor hurriedly took the ghost's core pulse, jotting quick notes on a fresh page of his clipboard, poking and proding the frost cover flesh of the child, before turning to face the chief yeti that was standing impassively in the entrance way, watching with a worry filled expression.

"The child has a mild condition of frostbite, and appears to have been laying out in the cold for three hours at the very least," the doctor stated, readjusting the small glasses perched upon his dog-like snout, "His core pulse is rather weak, his clothes are soaked in ectoplasm, and he seems to have quite the collection of bruises, but other than that, the boy is unharmed. He will recover quickly, given proper rest and treatment."

"This is good news," the larger ghost said with a toothy smile, "It would've been quite unfortunate for one so young to fall victim to the frozen tundra. Almost became a frost tiger's meal before I discovered him."

The doctor shook his shaggy head with a sigh of exasperation. "Honestly, Frostbite, I sometimes wonder how you manage to continuously stumble upon those in need despite all odds, and the obstacles in your path. This is the fith one in as many weeks, and I am certain he is not the last if you have your way."

Frostbite glanced at the sleeping form of the young spook, a subtle frown marking on his snout. "Something mysterious drew me to him, Icefoot. I would never have had found him otherwise in the blizard. In all my millenia of life, I have never felt anything like it."

"I sense it as well, Frostbite." Icefoot rumbled, "A strange aura of power surrounds him like a cloud. It feels similar to your own, old friend."

Frostbite smiled, clasping the doctor on his broadly muscled back. "Inform me when he awakes, friend."

The doctor nodded, readjusting his glasses yet again, making another note upon his clip board as the chieftain of the Farfrozen people exited the medical chamber. Icefoot cast a knowing look at the recovering youngling, eyes narrowing slightly.

It should prove an interesting meeting, the yeti observed to himself, before returning to his own bussiness that he had been working on before the chieftain had interupted him.

**Author's Notes**

** I love Frostbite in Danny Phantom. He's like a giant, cuddly, fanged snow monster plushie, with ice powers. Yeah, apparently Reaper looks rather tastey, almost getting eaten twice in one day, and being saved only by a stroke of luck both times. Hmmm, Reaper's blood has been mixed with a freaky crab-monster's, and now it's black. That can't be good. I hope he doesn't develoup a ghost-version of AIDS. That would really suck. Clockwork is probably freaking out by now, since Reaper has been missing for around 6 hours at this point. What will Reaper's state of mind be when he awakes? How will he get home? When will my internet stop being funky and allow me to do spell-check? Find out next chapter.**


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